


Haunted

by onvavoir



Series: Teumessian Fox [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gay Bar, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-25 21:09:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3825145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onvavoir/pseuds/onvavoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt doesn't often pick up men.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Immovable Object

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Training Buddies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3717559) by [Fyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre). 



Matt doesn't often pick up men. Women, sure. He comes across as non-threatening (what could a blind guy do to them?). His self-deprecating politeness (and his looks, let's be fair) win them over, and he likes to think he's pretty good in bed too. That always seems to surprise them, and that always disappoints him a little.

Picking up men is a little more dangerous, in several very real ways. Still, Matt's in the mood for it, so he goes to a place he likes. It's low-key, a pretty quiet bar where he can have a drink and maybe find a friend for the evening or for a few minutes. He studiously avoids karaoke night.

Tonight's a slow one, a couple of regulars that Matt recognises by sound and scent. One of them works for Landman and Zack. He settles himself on a stool at the bar and sets his cane next to him. 

"Macallan," he requests.

The barman nods and pours his drink. Matt listens. A pair in a corner booth, talking in low voices about things he really shouldn't be listening in on. He tilts his head. An older man sitting at the other end of the bar who seems to be in here every night, always on his own.

In the other corner. Someone quiet, alone. Steady breathing. And something else... an artificial sound. Electronic and metallic. What the hell is that? He frowns and listens. Now that he concentrates, he can smell the faint tinge of ozone. Semi-regular, almost like hydraulics. The quiet tap of the beer bottle on the table. Is it his arm? It doesn't sound like any prosthetic Matt's ever heard.

He eases off the stool, cane in hand, and taps his way across the room to the jukebox. The man in the corner tenses and then relaxes as Matt walks past him. He fishes in his pocket for a quarter and slips it into the machine. He's been here enough times to know the machine's entire repertoire. Two nine zero one.

He taps his way to the bathroom, past the man in the booth, who goes very still. Out again as Mick Jagger asks to introduce himself as a man of wealth and taste. Matt smiles a little to himself and then pretends to trip, just a minor one, but noticeable. The man in the booth doesn't move. He's watching Matt very closely, but he says nothing.

"I, uh, I'd hoped to be a little less clumsy before I approached," he says with a rueful smile. "I'm Matt. Can I buy you a drink?"

The silence is eerie. Even the hydraulics have stilled. The man holds himself very still and watches him. Matt presses his lips together.

"Sorry. I'll uh, leave you alone."

He turns, and the man speaks, almost inaudibly. "Wait."

A beat of silence. "Yuengling?"

Matt smiles. "Sure thing."

He goes to the bar to retrieve his drink and get the beer and then returns, turning on the charm.

"I didn't catch your name," he says.

The man's throat works audibly as he swallows. "Bucky."

Matt tips his head. It must be a nickname. Sounds vaguely familiar, like a friend of a friend of a friend. Doesn't matter. Rustle of denim and the faintest creak of leather glove as Bucky opens the beer with ease. Now the quiet sound of the hydraulics is clearer-- his hand, his arm, all the way up to the shoulder. Decidedly not standard issue. 

"Do you come here a lot?" he laughs a little. "I'm sorry, I don't do this much."

Matt sips his drink, Bucky his beer. His interest has gone beyond just trying to get laid. He wants to know the story, but he waits amiably for Bucky to break the silence or to direct him to the back door of the bar. The question, when it comes out, catches him off his guard.

"You're not actually blind, are you."

The tone is weirdly flat, as if Bucky doesn't really care one way or the other. He could be asking about the weather instead of whether Matt is trawling for pity fucks.

"I am, actually. But I come here a lot. You get to know a place."

Matt hears the whir just before Bucky's hand shoots out (god he's fast) and lifts his glass to avoid getting it spilled all over his suit. The two of them sit there for a moment.

"Good reflexes," Bucky murmurs.

"Yeah." 

Matt sips his drink. Bucky rubs his face with a rasp of stubble. He's so quiet, Matt can hear the intake of his breath. He smells of beer, new sweat, and soap from a shower earlier in the day. They go on drinking in silence until glass and bottle are empty.

"Another round?" Matt asks.

"No."

He nods. "Okay, I'll just--"

"Stay." Quiet, but sincere. A voice that's been through hell, if Matt's not mistaken.

"Okay."

Slowly, so as not to alarm him, Matt reaches across the table. He presses his fingers to the gloved hand. Hard beneath the leather, not cold but not warm. Strong fingers close around his own with a series of clicks. Matt tilts his head. His fingertips go searching up Bucky's wrist and touch metal. Bucky jerks his arm back, and Matt holds up his hands.

"I'm sorry. I was curious." He half-expects Bucky to get up and leave, to bolt like a hare. "I... know a little of what it's like to conceal things."

"What do you want?"

Mistrust has crept into his voice. Matt's stepped over the line, and he's not sure how to put Bucky at ease again. If he ever was at ease. He opts for honesty.

"What I want... is for you to come home with me."

He can hear a bit of a laugh in Bucky's voice.

"You don't even know what I look like."

"If you're not interested, I understand."

Matt stands up, and a hand-- the non-robotic one-- comes to rest on top of his. 

"I didn't say that."

A smile turns up the corner of Matt's mouth, and he ducks his head. Both their pulses quicken, and Matt licks his lips.

He moves towards the door, giving Bucky ample opportunity to get ahead of him and flee or to sit back down. Instead Bucky's slightly lopsided tread follows him out. 

"I live pretty close. Do you mind walking?"

Shift of fabric as Bucky shrugs. 

"Oh. Sorry. Yeah we can walk."

Matt smiles and turns homeward. The cane and the pretense of having it are hardly necessary, but it's a long-ingrained habit. The tapping fills the silence and bounces off the edifices of former warehouses. He gives it a minute or two.

"Race you to the corner," he jokes.

He can hear Bucky smile along with the huff of laughter. He takes in a breath as if to speak, but he says nothing, just keeps walking alongside Matt down streets he knows like he knows his own face. His gaze is palpable, not staring but curious. Suddenly all of Matt's carefully-practised signals feel pointless.

"Don't you ever worry, walking home by yourself at night?"

Matt smiles.

"I can handle myself."

"I bet."

That's what, twelve words he's now gotten out of Bucky's mouth? He resists the urge to turn and press his own mouth to it. Patience. He catches his lip between his teeth and measures his pace. Slow and steady, giving Bucky time to bail or to talk, whichever he wants to do.

Bucky says nothing else on the walk home. When they stop at the door to Matt's building, he takes another quick breath, but he lets it out again without speaking. Matt pauses with his keys in his hand. The street is empty, echoing with ambient noise. He turns and reaches out. Tension radiates from Bucky, but it melts away as Matt's hand rests on his shoulder. His skin warms, and his heartbeat trips a little faster and harder.

Matt runs his thumb across Bucky's cheekbone, traces his stubbled jaw and makes note of the hair brushing his fingertips. His chin is strong, lips a little rough. Bucky's breath catches, but he accepts the touch-- leans into it, even. How long has it been since someone's touched him?

Fumbling a little, Matt opens the door. He picks up his cane and folds it up as he walks down the steps into his apartment. Bucky is behind him, his steps a little slower, cautious. 

"Can I get you something to drink?"

"Water?"

Matt nods and goes about filling two glasses, Bucky watching him the whole time. He walks across the living room and hands him a glass, drinks from his own.

"Are you from around here?"

He hears Bucky swallow, the faint click of his tongue against the roof of his mouth. For a second he thinks Bucky isn't going to answer.

"Brooklyn."

Matt nods. 

"You?" Bucky adds, a few seconds later than most people. 

He's been traumatised somehow, and Matt's heart breaks a little to realise it. He feels guilty now, trying to pick up someone who's in such a bad place. He should have realised.

"Hell's Kitchen, born and raised," he says quietly.

"What?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Your face. Did I say something wrong?"

Matt shakes his head.

"No. Just sometimes I'm not as perceptive as I like to think I am." He sets down his water glass. "I don't... we don't have to do anything you don't want to."

Just like that, Bucky is moving, clink of the glass on the table, and his scent reaches Matt a millisecond before his mouth does. He's strong, just as Matt suspected, even without the bionic arm. Solid beneath his scruffy clothes, his mouth mobile. They kiss for a moment that stretches out, time marked only by their heavy breathing and the wet slide of Bucky's tongue against his own, the rough whisper of stubble against stubble.

He lets Bucky ease his jacket off his shoulders (a twinge from a recent injury). He leans back to pull Bucky with him onto the sofa. His weight feels good, if heavier than expected. His thigh moves in between Matt's. When he rolls his hips, Matt gasps into his mouth.

Bucky's lips move to his jaw, his neck, lush and damp. Matt extends his neck, rocks underneath him, and digs his fingertips into the skin just beneath his waistband. Bucky rolls his hips again, hardening, and then lifts his head.

"I don't want to break your glasses."

Matt smiles. He reaches up to take them off and tosses them onto the table. It makes him feel naked, not just because he's so used to them, but because he can tell Bucky is looking at him. He lifts his chin, letting his lips part. His tongue flicks at them, and Bucky comes down again to capture it.

The kissing is fantastic. Matt could happily do nothing else, but he suspects Bucky has needs of his own. Bucky's still on top, hard, and Matt feels the sudden urge to blow him. He braces one arm against the back of the sofa and rolls them both, onto the floor with him on top. Bucky's breath leaves him in a gasp. 

Matt works his way down, mouthing at Bucky's collarbone. He pulls up the hem of Bucky's t-shirt and presses his lips to the hot skin beneath. Hard muscle beneath that. He flicks open the button of Bucky's jeans. Bucky freezes, and so Matt stops. 

"Do you want me to stop?" he whispers, hoping to god the answer is no.

He can tell Bucky's shaking his head.

"I..."

Matt lowers his head to breathe out on Bucky's skin.

"Whatever you want." Bucky's breath hitches, and Matt zeroes in on the response. "Anything you want."

Bucky's right hand comes up to stroke his hair. He takes that as a sign. Slowly, he unzips Bucky's jeans and frees his hard-on. His fingertips skim up to get a sense of it, length and girth, cut or not. He takes the head into his mouth and rolls it around on his tongue. He closes his eyes at the salty skin taste, the tiny moan that Bucky lets out as Matt's tongue curls around it. Few things are more of a turn-on for him than giving other people pleasure. 

He takes his time, tests Bucky's reaction to different touches. It's as much to satisfy his own curiosity as to please Bucky. He swallows Bucky's cock, feels it press against the back of his throat. The hand in his hair tightens, pulls a little.

"Sorry," Bucky breathes.

Matt frees his mouth long enough to whisper, "It's okay, I like it."

He hums a little as he closes his mouth around Bucky's cock again. He'd smile if he could at the jerk of Bucky's hips. He flicks his tongue across the head and drinks in the quiet noises that tumble from Bucky's lips. His own dick is hard and pressing against the seam of his trousers. He ignores it. At worst he'll slip into the bathroom later and bring himself off.

Again he takes Bucky in, deep, swallows him down, and Bucky's hand closes in his hair. Pulls. Matt moans a little himself and tightens his lips. 

"Fuck!" Bucky whispers.

He's peaking, the tension in his body, the throb of his cock in Matt's mouth. His breath hitches and hitches again. The prosthetic arm, held obediently at his side, smacks its palm against the floor. Bucky whimpers. The pitch of it rises incrementally. Matt closes his fingers around the base of Bucky's cock, presses his thumb to the underside, and Bucky comes into his mouth with a gasp. Matt swallows, once, twice. A third time before he relinquishes his hold and lets Bucky's softening cock leave his mouth.

He can't help it-- he grins a little. And he's pretty sure that Bucky returns the smile.


	2. Unstoppable Force

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now it's Matt's turn.

Matt takes a moment to discreetly adjust his erection and then stands. He plants his feet and reaches out to Bucky. He's heavier than usual, loose-limbed, and his chest collides with Matt's as he comes up. He tips Matt's head back and kisses him hard, almost proprietary. Matt's startled by the unforgiving strength of the metal fingers within the leather glove wound through his hair-- and if he's honest, more than a little turned on. Something's happened in the last sixty seconds. Bucky's been so careful to lead with the other arm, it's pleasing to see him lose it a little.   
  
The arm traces down his back, then up his buttoned shirtfront. Bucky's breath is hot on his lips. Matt jumps a little as the bionic hand yanks his tie from around his neck in one pull. That, he decides, is also hot. He senses Bucky looking around.  
  
"Bedroom's this way," he says, leading. "If that's what you're looking for."  
  
Matt backs through the doorway as Bucky untucks his shirt, starts undoing the buttons. The air in the room is cool on his chest.   
  
Bucky stops. The metal arm whirs as he lifts it, but then he clearly thinks better of it. The fingertips that touch his scars are flesh and blood. Matt is 90% sure Bucky's frowning as he looks him over.  
  
"These are knife cuts. What happened to you?"  
  
For a crazed moment he's tempted to tell him. He doesn't want to spoil the mood with either a serious conversation or a defensive refusal. And he definitely would like to come sometime soon. Buying time, he kisses Bucky with short touches of his lips and tongue.  
  
"Make you a deal," he murmurs. "Don't ask about that, and I won't ask about..."  
  
Whir of the metal fist closing.   
  
"'Kay."  
  
Bucky takes his time undressing Matt. A little of the heat's gone out of them now, and Matt's content to let Bucky's hands explore. They undo his belt, his trousers. Matt helpfully toes off his shoes. A hand flat on his chest pushes him back, but he arm blocks it away.   
  
The surprise is evident in Bucky's posture and sudden stillness. Not wanting to put him on the defensive, Matt tugs at the hem of his shirt.  
  
"You're still dressed," he whispers.  
  
He knows he's treading a fine line. If he misjudges and makes Bucky feel exposed or threatened-- well, it could be a lot worse than Bucky just leaving him hard and wanting. The silence is excruciating. He tries to think of something that will put Bucky at ease again.  
  
"I just... I just want to touch you. All of you."  
  
Bucky exhales an unsteady breath. Matt skims his hands up Bucky's body, underneath the shirt. Bucky exhales again, harder, and then he pulls the shirt off over his head. Matt's hands move over his warm skin, his stomach, chest, shoulders. Cautiously, watching for any averse reaction, he runs his palm up to the scarred place where flesh meets machinery. His fingers crest Bucky's shoulder and linger on something painted onto the metal. A star. He doesn't understand, but he doesn't ask either.  
  
His hands run over what seems to be a series of very thin metal plates, all interlocking in the most complex and finely-tuned thing Matt's ever come across. He takes Bucky's metal hand and gently pulls the glove from it. The fingertips are cooler, about room temperature. Matt flexes them and then lets go.  
  
"Does it hurt?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
He's just broken their agreement, but Bucky says nothing. They undress each other the rest of the way and climb into bed.

Bucky is more circumspect now that his arm is exposed. He lies on Matt's right side and touches him with his unenhanced arm. His fingertips skip from scar to scar, and Matt lets him touch every one of them. He's not self-conscious about them-- if anything, they're a reminder of what he's survived. And how he could never have survived alone.   
  
Bucky's hand moves down to close around Matt's semi-erect cock, makes Matt breathe out. He presses their lips together. His tongue slides over Matt's as his thumb rubs at the head of Matt's cock, making him gasp. He can feel Bucky's smile against his lips.  
  
"I want to touch you," Bucky whispers. "All of you."  
  
The phrasing makes Matt smile. "Be my guest."  
  
The robotic hand winds in his hair again, pulls gently, and Matt writhes a little as he exhales through his nose. He glides his hands over Bucky's now-naked body, and goddamn if he isn't hard again already. Bucky murmurs something against Matt's mouth that sounds like "nope," and he takes hold of Matt's wrist, to pull it over his head. Matt's breath catches as Bucky gently takes his other wrist and pins them both together. He doesn't need to test the resistance. The cool metal hand holds them unequivocally. Matt's heart races.  
  
Bucky's free hand closes around his cock, gives it a gentle squeezing stroke, and Matt lets loose a volley of swearing that surprises even him. Bucky chuckles into his ear.  
  
"Like that, don't you."  
  
It's a statement, not a question. His voice has an odd rough quality, like it's rusty from disuse. The texture of it in Matt's ear rolls right down his nervous system to his cock. He lifts his hips a little into Bucky's stroking. Bucky stops and presses them down into the bed. The resistance and weight drive him mad, and Matt starts moaning the kind of obscenities that would make him blush, if all the blood weren't in his dick.   
  
He rarely gets this vocal, and something about he feedback loop of his own voice ratchets up the sensation. Bucky spits into his palm, thumbs the head of Matt's cock and gives it a ruthless stroke. Matt surrenders to it. The vise grip of Bucky's metal hand around his wrists, holding them down, the other hand on Matt's cock, warm the air of the room rolling across his skin, the smell of sex and sweat and skin, Bucky's breath hot on his neck, hitching when Matt says something he particularly likes. The loss of control is deliberate and frightening, and that too is a stimulant. He knows he doesn't have to do this, he could hold off for hours, but it just feels so fucking good. He needs this, needs to let go.  
  
He's still moaning words, kinky shit that never would have occurred to him before this moment, asking Bucky to do all those things to him, to suck his cock and make him plead before he lets him come. It's that final pornographic idea that tips the scales. He comes with a strangled cry, hot on his stomach. Bucky's hand slows but goes on stroking him until there's nothing left. Matt sobs, and Bucky lets go of his wrists, his heartbeat picking up with alarm.   
  
Matt reaches out to calm him, his eyes wet, "It's fine, it's fine, oh god fucking jesus christ I..."  
  
He rolls into the protective curve of Bucky's body. For a few precious moments he can't do or say anything except breathe into the warm crease of Bucky's neck. He's aware that Bucky's still hard, and as much as he wants to do something about that, he's too wrung out to move. He isn't even aware that he's nodded off until Bucky eases away from him and wakes him.  
  
Bare footsteps to the bathroom. Matt rolls onto his back and sighs. He's dimly aware of Bucky's return to the bed, easing in next to him and draping an arm over Matt's body. He holds off until he hears Bucky breathing the deep, even breathing of sleep, then lets himself go under.


End file.
